


collective image

by fangirl_squee



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Pre-Series, general spoilers for up to episdoe 35 of partizan (nothing specific but just in case), warning for crysanth's abysmal parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:01:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl_squee/pseuds/fangirl_squee
Summary: When Clementine Kesh is seven years old she disappears in the Perennial Wave. She is never seen again.
Relationships: Clementine Kesh & Gur Sevraq, Clementine Kesh & Perennial
Kudos: 22





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Clem is seven years old when she comes to Cruciat for the first time. It's a beautiful city, glittering stone buildings filled with glamorous people. She doesn't get to see much of it - Crysanth has left strict instructions with her attendants that Clem be kept out of sight apart from the handful of events she'll need to attend. Clem is more bored than upset - after all, this is Crysanth’s usual instructions when Clem is brought along on trips with her.

There are no other children her own age, or none that she's allowed to play with, and no one had thought to bring any kind of toys or books for her to amuse herself with. Crysanth says she's too old for such frivolities anyway.

She spends most of the first week there looking out the window. Her room is high enough that she can see the ocean stretching out beyond the elegant towers of the city. Birds drift over the surface of the ocean, snatching fish out of the water as the sun rises, calling out to one another. Clem wonders what they sound like. She hasn’t been allowed outside yet.

She scowls at her attendants. She could push past them of course, get herself outside, but then Crysanth would know. As with most vague instructions from her mother, Clem’s ability to stay inside and not cause a fuss is a kind of test. 

At the end of her second week there, there is finally a party deemed suitable for her to attend. It's on the waterfront, close enough that she'll be able to smell the air coming off the sea and hear the birds for herself. Clem tries not to be too visibly excited. She holds herself as still as possible on the drive there, her hands folded neatly in her lap to disguise how she's digging her nails into her palms. As they enter the party a server hands her a drink, and she's careful to hold the delicate glass with care. Crysanth gives her a sharp look, and Clem adjusts her hold on the glass.

The party is, of course, beautiful - warm lights and people in silk gowns speaking softly to one another. One day she'll go to parties like this all the time, probably. She imagines that they’re more enjoyable when you’re older. Crysanth certainly seems to enjoy them after all, moving easily from group to group. Crysanth puts a hand on Clem’s shoulder and tells her to enjoy herself, her tone making Clem swallow hard. Crysanth slips away, her steps effortlessly graceful. Clem does not follow. She's not supposed to bother her mother while she works.

There are a few other people there who would be deemed too young to be adults but they're still too old to want to spend the party with her. So, instead, she looks around the party until she can find a window with a view of the ocean. One of the balcony doors that overlooks the private beach is cracked open, and when Clem peeks through the glass she can see a cluster of servers together, the smoke from their cigarettes drifting in the night air. Away from the soft light of the party they look tired. She quickly looks away - it feels as though they’re something she shouldn’t see.

Clem presses her lips together, carefully opening the door wide enough for her to slip through, keeping her steps quiet as she heads in the opposite direction to the servers. This, at least, she has plenty of practice in. Crysanth often requires that her daughter be neither seen nor heard.

It's because she's on the edge of the party, away from the noise and the light, straining to hear the gulls in the distance, that she sees it before the others - the glow of the Perennial Wave, rolling across the surface of the ocean towards them.

Clem doesn't really know what it is at the time. She's too young yet for Crysanth to bother with giving her much diplomatic knowledge of the places they visit, and she's never had enough interest in current events to seek out information on the unique weather patterns of Partizan. So, instead, Clem watches curiously as the purple glow reaches the shore, breathing in the new scent of Russian sage as it mingles with the salt air. She’s never seen a storm look like this before. She smiles, feeling slever for having snuck out - watching the storm roll in is  _ much  _ more interesting than anything happening inside.

Inside the party, she can hear a commotion of some kind but she doesn't think much of it, moving a little further down the balcony, away from the noise. If it's important, someone will come to get her. That's what always happens. 

The glow drifts up, tendrils of the fog curling around the balcony railing. Clem reaches out a hand to touch it, her eyes widening. It feels warm, and more solid than it should - not as though it were a person, but not entirely unlike touching something, or someone.

“Hello?” says Clem, keeping her voice quiet. She doesn’t want to be made to go back in just yet.

The fog parts around her, the space from her to the balcony steps clearing as the world behind her becomes more indistinct. Clem glances back. She can still see the lights of the party, just barely. She looks forward again. It’s difficult to see where the path leads - down to the sand, perhaps? To the ocean?

Clem presses her lips together. She hadn’t been  _ told _ she wasn’t allowed down to the ocean, not in so many words at least, and no one would notice her absence until it was time for Crysanth to leave. She takes a step forward, and then another, the fog moving in the cover the path behind her as it reveals more in front of her. Clem bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile. It feels like uncovering a secret.

She pauses when she gets to the bottom step. People might not notice she was gone, but they would definitely notice if she tracked sand inside from her polished shoes. She carefully pulls off her shoes and lace stockings, leaving them on the second-to-last step. She lifts up her skirts, and steps down onto the cool sand.

Clem grins at the sensation, wriggling her toes. It feels nice, after the tight confines of her new party shoes. She glances back at her shoes, waiting neatly for her on the step, and, feeling very clever in having thought to take them off, she steps forward to follow the path through the fog. She’s not sure where she’s going, exactly, but it’s all so interesting that she doesn’t care. She can always find her way back later.

The sand underneath her feet changes, damper as she gets closer to the water’s edge. She hastens her steps, and the path in front of her clears faster to match, bringing her, finally, to the water’s edge.

Clem stops sharply just before the water. She is, probably, not supposed to go in and certainly not without her proper bathing attire. Her toes curl in the sand, and she glances back behind her. The lights of the party glint weakly through the fog as it curls over her shoulder. Clem gasps at the sensation. It’s as warm as it had been on the balcony, more like the sensation of someone’s hand hovering over your skin than truly touching you, enough for you to know someone was there. It is accompanied by the uncanny feeling of being watched.

She  _ knows _ there’s someone there.

“Hello?” tries Clem again, her voice a little louder now that she doesn’t have to worry about being overheard.

There’s no response, but the waves washing up on the shore just barely touch her toes. It feels like  _ something _ .

Clem closes her eyes, listening as hard as she can. “Is someone there? My name is Clementine Kesh.”

The waves wash over her feet and then retreat. Clem opens her eyes, inhaling sharply as she takes in the sight before her. Written in front of her, as though deep lines have been cut into the sand, are three words: 

_ You are Clementine. _

“Yes!” says Clem excitedly, “Yes, I am! Who are- oh, sorry-” She squeezes her eyes shut, in case that’s part of it. “Who are you?”

She waits, biting her lip to focus on not opening her eyes, until she feels the waves over her feet again, up to her ankles this time.

_ Perennial _ .

There’s a pressure at her shoulder from the fog, and when Clem turns she can see a new path, leading her down the shore. It seems like it goes for a long way, much further than she ought to go. Clem bites her lip, curling her toes in the cold sand. She probably should return to the party, put her shoes back on and slip back inside before anyone knew she’d spent so much time on the beach.

A wave laps the shore, washing away the word.

“Wait, don’t go,” says Clem, and steps forward onto the path.

She feels like she's on the edge of discovering some huge secret, like when she catches the end of one of her mother's phone conversations. Even if she gets in more trouble for it, she doesn't want to go back just yet.

The fog curls in behind her, but Clem doesn’t pay it much attention. She hurries along the path, running a little, walking a little. She’s normally not allowed to exert herself so much at parties, but no one can see her through the fog. Clem runs along the beach and  _ laughs _ . The fog curls at her shoulders, as though it were running beside her. It feels nice, to have the company.

She runs until the beach becomes too rocky, slowing down to pick her way across the stoney shore to the rock pools and then to a cave. It’s cooler in the cave, and Clem wraps her arms around herself. The fog curls over her arms, offering its warmth.

“Thank you,” says Clem. She pauses, looking up at the dripping ceiling. “Where are we?”

There’s no answer, but in the silence Clem can hear the sound of a boat butting up against stone. She follows the sound. Hidden inside the mouth of the cave is a small sailboat, secured to a rock by a vine of sage. Clem leans close to see the name written on the side of the boat.  _ Perseverance. _

Clem bites her lip. She really ought to go back. She’ll already be in so much trouble for leaving, even though the party was so  _ boring _ , even though she was only there because Uncle Cynosure  _ made _ her mother bring her because he wanted as much of their family in attendance as possible, even though no one would have noticed if she wasn’t there at all, ever.

The boat bobs up and down, butting against the rock as though to get her attention.

“I’m- I think I’m supposed to go back,” says Clem.

Again, there’s no answer. Outside the cave, she can see that the fog has cleared, giving her a path along the water. Clem presses her lips together, closing her eyes. She can’t hear the party any more. She can only hear the boat, and the water, and the distant sound of gulls. 

Clem swallows, her throat oddly tight. She’s been sailing before, of course. It’s tremendous fun, and she can do it all herself which is such a wonderful break from having a maid or a tutor hovering over her shoulder, ready to report every breach of etiquette to Crysanth. She even has a little boat of the same size at home, although Crysanth doesn’t really like for her to take it out, since she has a habit of being too excitable when she comes back in. Crysanth, Clem knows with absolute certainty, would  _ not _ like it if she got on this boat.

Perennial, whoever she is,  _ does _ want her to get on the boat. This is also what Clem would like to do, even if it means she’ll be in  _ dreadful _ trouble when she gets back. The sailboat is small, and a little weathered, but is otherwise in excellent condition, and she can hear the wind pick up a little outside. Perfect for sailing, and so much more interesting than walking all the way back so that she can stand quietly at the edges of the party that she almost wants to  _ cry _ .

“If I do this,” says Clem, “How will I get back?”

Her own voice echoes a little.  _ Get back? _

“I’m not really supposed to go so far away without asking.”

_ Supposed to go so far away _ , echoes her voice.

Clem presses her lips together, shifting her feet on the rocky floor of the cave. She can feel where the words are leading her, like Crysanth pressing her on how her tutelage was going, giving hints on the answers she wanted to hear. Something squirms in the pit of her stomach, the feeling closer to excitement than fear.

“I- If I go, I won’t come back, will I?”

_ Won’t come back _ , agrees her echo.

If she wanted to, she could turn around, follow the shoreline back to the party. There would be trouble, of course, for leaving the party and taking her shoes off and getting seawater on her party dress. It wouldn’t matter that it’s the only fun she’s had all trip. It wouldn’t matter that she would have been miserable and bored at the party. She would be sent to her room, probably for the rest of the trip, the only real difference from her time before being Crysanth icy words.

_ Or _ .

Or she could get on the sailboat and see what happens. No consequences, no Crysanth, and something entirely new. Even if punishment awaited her, at least it would be different.

Clem swallows, opening her eyes. She takes a deep breath and steps onto the boat. The vine of sage slips off from the rock without her touching it, letting the boat drift out towards the open ocean. Clem busies herself, raising the sail, settling herself at the rudder to steer. A thrill goes through her as the boat clears the cave. She can almost feel where the water begins to darken under her, deeper than any of the lakes on Kesh’s estates.

She follows the path through the fog, heedless of time until her stomach grumbles, prompting her to poke around the boat for something to eat. There’s a canteen of water along with a fragrant loaf of bread, some cheese, and a surprisingly crisp apple wrapped in a cloth in the boat’s locker.

Clem almost takes a bite before she stops herself, looking up at the night sky. “Thank you.”

The boat bobs up and down on a wave in a way that feels like acknowledgement.

She’s not sure how long she sails for. She sleeps and when she wakes the fog has pressed close to her, keeping her warm through the night. There’s more bread and cheese in the tiny locker, the little canteen of water refilled.

Clem swallows, her throat tight. “I feel like I’m saying thank you an awful lot. I do hope it’s not annoying, mother says I-”

The boat bobs up and down, the fog above her clearing, letting in the morning sunlight. Clem looks up, blinking to clear her vision. The sun is warm on her skin, the wind brushing the hair back from her face. 

“Oh,” says Clem, her voice rough, "Well that's- good."

The fog around her doesn’t clear until she reaches the shore, one that feels far away from the smooth beaches of Cruciat. The rocky beach leans up to sand dune, thick bushes of sage lining her path. There’s no dock and so Clem drags the boat ashore herself, helped by the tide.

The sage leads her through the sand dunes to a clearing. There, in the centre, is a thicket of sage, with an opening just big enough for her to crawl through. Clem glances down at her clothes. Her party dress is already beginning to look a little ragged, enough so that whatever scraps she gets from the sage would be barely noticeable.

And then, of course, she remembers that she’s not going back. A laugh shakes free from her chest. Perennial doesn’t seem to mind if her clothing gets a little messy. Perennial even seems to like that. How odd. How  _ wonderful _ .

She crouches down, and begins to make her way through the sage tunnel. It’s warm inside the sage, just like it was inside the fog. And, just like the fog, it comes with the feeling that someone is near, watching over her. Clem doesn’t quite know what to make of it. It doesn’t feel like a test or judgement, not in the ways she knows tests and judgements to be. She’s being watched, but not studied.

The tunnel ends in a round room of sage. There are lighter patches of sage in the walls around her, acting like windows and letting in light and air. In one corner there’s a patch where the sage is thicker, beckoning her to bed, to sleep.

“Well. Goodnight, I suppose,” says Clem.

The sage rustles around her, and Clem smiles.

Time passes her by. She follows the tunnel out each day and explores the forest near the shore, marking out trails on the map Perennial gives her. She finds scattered fruit trees, a washed up shipment of canned goods, a freshwater stream. She fumbles her way through learning to make a fire, to hunt small rabbits and birds, at having the patience for fishing.

She outgrows her party dress, and a trunk of clothes washes up on the shore. They’re not quite as pretty as Clem would like, but they fit well enough and they’re much more comfortable than her old dress. She cuts up the dress, using the scraps of fabric to tie her hair back. The sage of the thicket blooms as she cuts the fabric and Clem smiles. It’s always nice to know she’s got it  _ right _ .

She still does brace herself, sometimes, when she gets things wrong. Perennial never rages, only waits, the feeling of being watched settling between Clem’s shoulder blades as she reworks a trap or carefully clears weeds from around the sage. Even when the day has been a disaster, Clem can still feel Perennial, warm around her, as she falls asleep. The warmth feels as though it stays in her chest, even on the coldest days. Clem’s not entirely sure what to do with the feeling, other than to keep following the paths Perennial shows her.

“Are you there?” Clem asks.

Perennial answers- a curl of sage where there should be none, the fog clearing in front of her, something she needs miraculously washing ashore.

“Thank you,” says Clem.

The wind blows the sage to tickle the back of her neck and then retreats, and Clem smiles.

She talks to Perennial quite a lot, compared to how much she spoke to people before. She talks through how she's building a trap or navigating a path, exclaims over bright seashells on the beach or discovering a new grove of sage further inland. Perennial doesn't reply to most things, not unless Clem asks her something directly, but Clem can feel her, watching, listening. Warmth curls in Clem's chest whenever she thinks of it, making it easy to push through whatever trial or test she's in the middle of, even when Perennial says nothing at all.

She has dreams, sometimes, which is new. She never used to have dreams, and never ones that were so vivid. Black mechs marching endlessly across the surface of Partizan, barely held back by a rival force. The halls of the Winter Palace, the windows shattering as explosions rain down. A floating city crashing to earth. A farmer taking up arms, calling for aid. She blinks up at the ceiling of sage above her on those mornings, the warm weight of Perennial’s fog on her shoulders. Surely every place in her dream is too far for her to get to. Surely if Perennial truly wanted her to go, she would give Clem a sign.

She’s woken one morning to an odd sound. It takes her a moment to place it - voices. People.

Clem scrambles up, pulling on her clothes. Her mother’s voice echoes sharply in her head, pointing out her tangled hair, her rough nails, her worn clothing. She can feel her heart beating rabbit-fast in her chest, and she covers her mouth, trying to quiet the sound of her breathing.

“Hello?” calls a voice.

The tunnel of sage widens in front of Clem, coaxing her out. Clem cautiously looks out through the branches. It’s not her mother, or Kesh soldiers. It’s a figure in long robes, their metal face shining in the morning light. She can see, on the edges of his sleeves, a twisting design of sage, purple flowers forming the buttons down the front of his robe. Clem breathes a sigh of relief. If Perennial knows him, then she’s brought him here.

“Hello,” says Clem.

The figure jumps, legs skittering under his robe as they turn. “Ah, I- apologise. I was not sure that there was truly anyone here.”

“Of course there is,” says Clem, “Or she wouldn’t have brought you.”

“I… yes. Yes I suppose you’re right.” They pause. “My name is Gur Sevraq, Leader of the Church of the Resin Heart.”

“Never heard of you,” says Clem, choosing not to mention that she hasn’t heard much of anything while she’s been here.

“We… are part of the Disciples of Logos,” tries Gur.

“Okay,” says Clem, “But what are you doing  _ here _ ?”

Gur shifts a little. “I had a vision of this place, and sought to find it.”

“A vision,” Clem repeats, “like… a dream?”

“Yes,” says Gur, “I- from Perennial.”

Clem folds her arms. “Why would she talk to  _ you _ ?”

They look at her curiously. ”You are... familiar with her?”

“Yes,” says Clem, unable to hide the annoyance in her voice, “I mean, she’s here. She’s always here.”

Gur looks around them, looking curiously at the thicket of sage. “I suppose she is.” They pause. “Does she speak to you often?”

“Yes,” says Clem, “Well. Sort of. You have to know how to listen for it.”

Gur smiles. “You do indeed.” He pauses again. “Do- Do you live here?”

Clem hesitates. Perennial has probably sent him,and she trusts that, but… it feels like a test. She can feel Perennial in the sage around them, waiting.

“I- Yes,” says Clem.

Gur considers this. She wonders what he does, that he has so much time to think between sentences.

“How long have you been here, in this place?”

“A while,” says Clem.

“Alone?”

Clem bristles. “No, Perennial is here.  _ Obviously _ .”

Gur pauses. “I believe she has sent me to find you.”

“Why?” says Clem, “She already knows where I am.”

“Perhaps she wishes you to be returned to the world,” says Gur.

Panic flutters in Clem’s chest. “Oh, no, thank you.”

Gur blinks. “Surely you must have come from somewhere.”

“Yes, but I’m here now,” says Clem, “I much prefer it. You must have come here for something else.”

“Perhaps,” says Gur, “I will have to think on what that could be.”

What he means by this is that he sets up a camp next to the thicket of sage. It’s richly coloured, the fabric of his tent as fine as her old party dress. Outside the clearing the fog is thick, and so Clem reluctantly accepts his offer of a meal. 

“I admit, I am not entirely sure that you are real,” says Gur slowly.

He’s being careful with his words, reminding Clem of long-forgotten tutors. She feels a spike of annoyance.

“Well I am real,” snaps Clem, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It is just very odd to find a person alone all the way out here,” says Gur.

“I’m not alone,” says Clem, gesturing to the fog, “She’s always here, see?”

Gur blinks at her. “You must forgive me. I have not known her to be so… nurturing.” They pause. “You must have been very young, when you arrived here.”

Clem considers this for a moment. “I was seven, but I think that was a while ago.”

Gur hums. “ _ Seven _ . Well. It must have been a great honour to your family for you to be chosen for such a life.”

“I don’t think so,” says Clem, “I wasn’t supposed to-”

She presses her lips together.

Gur gives her a curious look. “They disagreed with your path?”

“No, I-” Clem breaks off again, looking towards the fog. She wrinkles her nose, then closes her eyes, letting out a breath. “Do you want me to tell him?”

“What-  _ Oh _ ,” she hears Gur say.

She opens her eyes- the sage thicket has bloomed, almost glowing with purple light. Clem lets out a breath.

“Okay.” She turns back to Gur. “I was in Cruciat, with my mother, and we- I wasn’t supposed to leave the party but I saw- her. Perennial. And she- she helped me leave. She helped me get away.”

“I see.” Gur frowns, the expression deepening as silence lingers between them. “What is your name?”

An easy question, finally. Clem feels her shoulders relax.

“I am Clementine.”

Gur’s forehead wrinkles in thought and then smoothes out as his eyes widen. “Clementine  _ Kesh _ ?”

“Yes,” says Clem, “Or- no. Sort of. When I was seven, I was.”

“Your mother is-” Gur closes his eyes. “ _ Perennial _ , goddess above-”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Clem, “I haven’t been her in a long time. I’m just Clementine now. I live here now. I-”

“This is why you have brought me here,” says Gur, looking up, “to bring Clementine Kesh back to the world.”

“It is  _ not _ ,” says Clem, “I-  _ this _ is the world. I don’t-”

“Clementine,” says Gur, his voice frustratingly calm, “You don’t understand, there is-”

“I don’t care,” says Clem, standing up hurriedly, “I don’t  _ care _ , that’s  _ not _ why you’re here, she wouldn’t- that  _ can’t _ be why you’re here-”

She turns, her stomach twisting as she realises her usual tunnel into the thicket is nowhere to be seen. Gur stands, reaching for her, and Clem bolts away, heading for the safety of the fog. The path in front of her does not clear, and Clem slows her pace, stumbling over unseen rocks and tree roots. She braces herself behind a tree, closing her eyes tight.

“Please,” says Clem, “Please, don’t send me away.”

The fog presses close to her, a warm almost-embrace. Clem’s cheeks feel wet, and she hurriedly wipes her eyes.

“ _ Please _ ,” says Clem, “Don’t- Can you give me a sign?”

“Clementine!” Gur calls from behind her.

“Not like  _ that _ ,” says Clem.

The fog thins, enough that Clem can glimpse Gur through the trees and tangle of sage. There’s a warm pressure on her shoulders, turning her more towards Gur. Through the fog, he almost seems to glow.

Clem sighs, wiping her eyes again. “Okay. Okay, I- Well. I suppose I did ask.”

She makes her way back to camp, waiting for Gur to be guided back. It’s night by the time he returns. He looks surprised to see her, reminding her again of her old tutors..

“I- if I went back with you, what would that mean?” says Clem.

“I suppose we could… your mother is still a very powerful figure,” says Gur, “I am sure she would be glad to see your return.”

Clem’s stomach squirms. “I couldn’t- do I have to go back  _ there _ ?”

Gur blinks, tilting his head. “No, I suppose you do not. Where would you like to go?”

Clem makes a face, thinking. “I think I… I have dreams, sometimes. When you have visions, how do you know which ones are important?”

Gur folds their hands in their lap. “Perhaps you could tell me your most recent one, and we could work backwards from there?”

“A farmer,” says Clem, “And he… needed help. He was fighting something, I think.”

“The Farmer,” says Gur, slowly. “Yes, I believe I know who you mean. Perhaps we will start there, and see where Perennial guides us.”

“Is- she’s out there too?” says Clem.

Gur smiles at her. “Yes. Perhaps she is not as present as she is here, but… You will always be able to see her, if you know where to look, but I believe you have had a great deal of practise in that.”

Gur looks behind her and Clem’s follow his gaze towards the thicket of sage, tinged purple with flowers, the fog just visible past the clearing. It will probably be different, out in the world, but she was out in the world when she met Perennial too.

When Gur leaves the shore the next morning Clem follows them, a small potted sage plant tucked in her arms.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi: mariusperkins on most places


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